


The Night of the Woman

by Nice_Valkyrie



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Car Sex, Choking, F/F, Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:48:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26656141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nice_Valkyrie/pseuds/Nice_Valkyrie
Summary: Lust and Riza have a clandestine meeting to exchange information of various kinds.
Relationships: Riza Hawkeye/Lust
Kudos: 31
Collections: Equivalent Exchange 2020





	The Night of the Woman

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PrisonersDilemma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrisonersDilemma/gifts).



The telephone was one of the few inventions of the last hundred years Lust found truly remarkable. Humans went to such lengths to forge connections. They built switchboards and strung wires and captured lightning in a bottle, all so they could speak and have someone else hear them. 

Of course, sometimes they didn’t get quite what they expected on the other end.

“Yes?” Lust purred into the receiver.

The phone made voices crackly and faint, but somehow Hawkeye’s diction always came through sharply. “Yesterday evening Major Guthrie stepped out for what she called ‘a spot of dinner’ and didn’t return for nearly three hours. Would you happen to know anything about that?”

“You can’t spare so much as a ‘hello’ for your best girl?”

There was a pause, short but pregnant with Hawkeye’s disapproval. “Can you meet or not?”

Lust sighed. “Yes.”

An hour later she was sitting beside a memorial fountain for some general or other in the silk quarter. There was an excited feeling in her midsection. Patiently, Lust ignored it. She never felt this way when she was meeting men for trysts. That was perfunctory--business. This, she told herself, was business, too.

She was certainly dressed for it. Upright, prim, carefully rouged, she looked the picture of a perfect lady, and not of the night, either. She looked precisely like the sort of woman Lieutenant Hawkeye might meet for casual conversation.

Of course, that thought just made the excitement burn hotter.

The car pulled up smoothly, sliding into place beside the curb without so much as a squeak. When Lust slipped into the passenger seat, Hawkeye was still staring out through the front windshield. Her hands were tight on the wheel. It was a moment before she finally turned her head. “What do you have for me?”

“You’re always in such a rush,” said Lust, pouting. “Don’t you ever relax? Take some time to smell the roses. Or at least hold them in your arms a while.”

Hawkeye’s cheeks turned a glorious scarlet as she tightened her grip on the wheel, but her voice remained steady. “Why should I bother?”

Lust bit her lip to hide her smile. “Haven’t you been thinking about it since you called?”

Hawkeye sighed, almost inaudibly, as she pulled out into the street. She was likely trying for disapproval, but to Lust it sounded like delicious neediness. The engine’s rumble made its way through the steel body and leather seats, a warm hum at the back of Lust’s thighs; in Hawkeye’s, too, certainly, traveling up. Heating up.

If Lust were to tease her right now about being taken home like a proper date, oh, Hawkeye would near boil with furious embarrassment. Her propriety was an easy mark. 

Hawkeye took her time choosing a spot with some seclusion. She found a quiet lane near the park which lacked either sidewalks or streetlamps. Still, when they rose together and entered the back seat of the automobile, she was already squirming. No amount of isolation was ever enough for her. She was always looking over her shoulder and squinting off into the distance for some imagined threat. 

Although this little street was dark and deserted, it crossed another perhaps a hundred yards up that was more heavily trafficked. Even as they sat, headlights crossed the intersection, their luminous flare washing over the narrow backseat and dripping quickly away. Hawkeye opened her eyes again after the car passed.

“Don’t you want something from me?” said Lust. “Or are we just sitting in the backseat together to whisper and giggle?”

“I’m not much of a giggler, no.”

Hawkeye’s ideas about seduction were _so_ engaging. She liked to be coaxed, which was hardly unusual; but she was so stubborn, too light a touch would end only in frustration. It might have been more correct to say she wanted to be goaded. Hawkeye needed to be teased, not the way one schoolgirl might tease another, but the way a matador worked a bull: cautiously, but without hesitation, and in conscious pursuit of unrestrained passion.

Lust slid down the seat a little. “Then why have you dragged me all the way out here, where no one can see us?”

As she spoke, she slid her hand across the few inches between them and brushed the back of her knuckles against Hawkeye’s thigh, sliding up to find her wrist. Lust circled her fingers around it, finding the bright, beating pulse. 

Hawkeye’s breath caught. “You made it sound urgent.”

Lust had often wondered what it would be like to have a mouth that watered. She didn’t crave food, and she didn’t drink blood. When she wanted something, the ache came from none of the usual places. Instead, she felt it in her chest, a little to the right from where someone might expect her heart to be. 

When she leaned in and pressed her lips to Hawkeye’s, the ache only deepened. Hawkeye gasped, as though she hadn’t been expecting it. They were too close for any emotion on her face to be visible, but Lust knew what she would have wished for: fear, desire, or with any luck, a bit of both…

“Isn’t it, honey?” she murmured.

She tugged the top button of Hawkeye’s shirt open, which prompted a half-strangled sound in her throat. She said nothing, but her hips shifted, her thighs spreading and allowing her to sink down just a little more into Lust’s lap.

“Yes,” Lust said, answering her own question. She opened the next button, then the next, tugging the linen as a delicious, widening triangle of creamy skin appeared. “Stick to rote work, Hawkeye. Subterfuge isn’t your specialty.”

Hawkeye tightened her hand in Lust’s hair. Lust shivered. She couldn’t be injured, but she still felt pain--every delicious second of it. Nerve endings were nerve endings, after all. Sensation flared in them: pain, and pleasure. She let her neck tilt with Hawkeye’s insistent tugging, exposing the place where a false pulse beat…

Perhaps exposing her neck should have made her feel some sort of weakness. After all, her head could still be sliced off--which would certainly hurt. She had no interest in her own decapitation, or in bleeding herself dry. But for Lust, the idea of vulnerability was merely curious, as distant and theoretical as any platonic daydream. 

And yet as Hawkeye’s lips began to nibble on the exposed skin, Lust felt the same thrill she always received in the proximity of human desire. It was like the heat called out to her core, a chorus echoing across the span of thousands of lives. 

Hawkeye hesitated. “You…” She wrinkled her nose, licked her lips.

Lust knew immediately what it was. Her body emitted a natural metallic odor, which some humans found repugnant. Sometimes she covered it with perfume. Not today. But Hawkeye’s expression was not one of disgust. As Lust looked closer, she suddenly recognized the tortured emotion. “You like it,” she realized out loud.

She had heard of human men who found the sight of a human woman’s body an unearthly terror. What would those men think of the night that lived in her? 

If someone cut _her_ open, all they would find was a flash of red.

Of course Hawkeye liked how Lust tasted. A woman who spent so much time around guns had to find the scents of metal and oil first familiar, then comforting, and then perhaps even intoxicating. She probably got wet handling a good gun. At the thought, something viciously pleasant twisted in Lust’s midsection. 

Hawkeye never wore skirts, more was the pity. It took Lust several seconds to yank the row of buttons open. She shoved her hand into Hawkeye's trousers and found the pistol strapped to her thigh.

“How cute.”

Hawkeye flushed all the way down below her open collar. Lust shuddered at the violent thoughts that prompted. “What? Don’t like my calling attention to it?”

“It’s not meant to be seen like this.”

Lust squeezed Hawkeye’s muscular thigh. The pistol caught the light as Lust massaged the leg beneath it. “Is this one your favorite? Is it heavy in your hand?” 

Her voice caught. “I don’t care for this subject…”

Lust moved her hand toward heat and softness. She began to stroke, gently. Each touch of her finger made Hawkeye twitch.

“How thick is the barrel?”

Hawkeye swallowed loudly. She shifted—and Lust felt, on her finger, the rush of slickness that meant Hawkeye was reacting. Yielding to temptation. Roses, of course, had thorns. She pressed on: “Have you ever thought about this before?”

“No.”

“Really? I find that hard to believe.”

Her fingers slipped in so easily. Hawkeye bit back a groan, but her body reacted more than she had allowed her voice. Her hips rocked back and forth, working Lust's fingers in deeper, until the last knuckle.

“You wear it on your thigh," Lust whispered. "It must turn you on a little bit.”

Hawkeye placed a warning hand over Lust’s clavicle. “That’s enough.”

Lust didn’t bother to stop the purr that rose in her throat. “I can feel that it does. More than a little.”

Hawkeye’s hands slid up, hot and firm around Lust’s neck. The car was so small, so cramped; Lust longed for a nice bed, the better to spread their bodies open upon. She couldn't tell whether it was her own pulse or Hawkeye's that she felt in her encircled throat. She licked her lips, watching Hawkeye’s hungry gaze fixed on the motion.

“Come on,” she whispered. “You’d like to be stretched by one of your own pistols, wouldn’t you?”

She shoved another finger in. That was enough. Hawkeye's grip shifted, settled into something with real intent.

She squeezed, slowly. Lust let her eyes fall shut. Her breath rasped down her throat, the tiny constriction like one would use to whistle. Hawkeye had an excellent grip, one born of years of practice—although Lust believed no other woman had ever put those hands to use like this. Hawkeye wouldn’t have been so desperate if she had ever had the opportunity to sample this delicacy before. 

“As hard as you like,” Lust whispered. “You can’t hurt me.”

“You don’t know that.”

Oh, Hawkeye. How strong did she think her hands were? “I trust you.”

Something flared in Hawkeye’s eyes. Her hands twitched, just slightly. Her nails were short—so short that Lust had never feared being scratched. But as Hawkeye began to squeeze, their hard half-moons felt as sharp as any knife blade. 

“That’s it,” Lust said. She had to work a little to get the words but not much—not yet. 

“Give me something bigger and I’ll stop.”

"I haven't seen Georgina Guthrie in a month," Lust said hoarsely. "The only officer I've seen recently is—"

"That's not what I meant."

Now Lust’s breath caught. She had never much liked the idea of being on fire, but there was no other way to describe the heat on her skin. 

It took some effort to work the last finger inside. But once all four were stuffed in Hawkeye's cunt, Lust pumped her wrist with abandon. This, _this_ was why she wanted to see Hawkeye, in a way that felt terribly close to need. She understood, in a distant, clinical way, how humans reacted to her allure. But she never felt lust herself except for in these moments, with this woman moaning and panting and riding her hand desperately. If she were to unleash her talons now—

"I'd like to be clear on one thing," Hawkeye whispered. Her voice shook with the effort. “I’m my own best girl."

Her orgasm squeezed Lust's fingers as though she wanted to choke the life out of them.


End file.
